


Ghosts of Future and Past

by HartwinMakethMan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, F/M, Gen, Here’s your Stucky Endgame AU, M/M, Quantum Realm Avengers, Quantum Realm Steve, stop being bitter about Endgame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 20:09:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18858217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HartwinMakethMan/pseuds/HartwinMakethMan
Summary: He woke up with a Hell of a headache, and the Other Steve’s voice ringing in his ears: “Bucky is alive”.He had had a compass— the compass— and he had known Bucky, and... Loki’s disguises couldn’t be that strong, could they?At first, he writes it off as yet another conundrum of this strange new millennium, but things get stranger. The brass at SHEILD start treating him strangely, even offering him a job in DC.He might not know quite what’s going on, but the Other Steve’s words still echo in his mind, and he’s sure of one thing: he can’t trust anyone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As someone that loved Endgame AND loves Stucky, I started thinking about how we could make both exist. I mean, it is a multiverse. What if the universe in which Steve and Bucky get to be together is in the Quantum Realm? With the help of our own MCU Steve? 
> 
> This is essentially The Winter Soldier, if Steve was already suspicious of SHEILD. If he had a warning. 
> 
> I hope you love it! Let me know what you think in the comments!

His head was throbbing. His back ached. _Everything_ in him pulsed with agony like he’d been hit by a train. 

A train. _Bucky_. 

“ _Bucky is Alive_ “ 

He could feel the winter cold at the memory, his eyes snapping open as the past few moments came flooding back to him. 

There had been _another Steve_. Even without the mask, he’d looked just like him. It must have been Loki playing tricks again, it _had_  to be. 

But, he had had the compass. 

And he had said... 

Fumbling in his utility belt, he gripped at the compass, letting out a relieved rush of air when he felt it— the _other one_ hadn’t had _his_ , so how did he have one? Loki’s disguises couldn’t be that good, right? 

Delicately, he pulled the tiny compass out of his pocket and stared at it in his gloved palm. With shaking fingers he tipped it open and studied Peg’s beautiful face. Her secretive, Mona Lisa smile, her glittering eyes.

She had been a good friend. Steve couldn’t help but think that Peggy would know what to do in this situation. In _any_  situation.

Then, he gently pulled her tiny photo out of the lid, and his breath caught.

His breath caught, just like it always did when Steve looked at _him_. 

Bucky was more handsome than Gary Cooper in his dress slacks and army hat. He sent Steve’s heartbeat into his throat, and the grief was only choked by _guilt_.

Steve could close his eyes and still feel the wind rushing past him, hear Bucky’s terrified scream get further and further down the canyon. His heart clenched painfully in his chest, drowning out all other aches from the battle with the _other Steve._

Traitorous hope bloomed in his chest and he squashed it ruthlessly. Bucky couldn’t be alive— Steve had watched him _die_ , had felt that hand slip right through his fingers. 

Bucky was _dead_.

It must have been a distraction to throw him off his guard. It _must have been_. 

He had to find the team. Get more intel on the Tessaract and Loki. 

Shoving himself up to standing, Steve peered up the stories and stories of staircases that he’d fallen down. He shook out his limbs, feeling the serum itch as it mended the bruises. He shook the memories out of his head, too, desperate for something to focus on that wasn’t _Bucky,_  or some stupid, half baked hope.

 

* * *

 

On the ground level of the Tower, Steve wasn’t quite sure what he’d walked in on— Tony was sprawled across the tile, everyone hovering around him, tension crackling in the air like lightning. 

It was Thor. The god was _agitated_ , pacing. 

“Oh, so just moments ago I saved your life, and now it’s _my_ fault he’s gone? I’m not the one who dropped the case—“ he boomed. 

“I had a cardiac event, Fabio! Maybe you should be shooting your sparks at Big Brother over here!” Tony shouted back up at him from the floor, the team of paramedics still checking him over. 

“What the _Hell_ happened?” Steve cut through the squabbling with his most authoritative, Captain America voice. 

Everyone stopped to look at him. Some of the interns and grunts scuttled away, leaving Steve to stride into the fray of Avengers and SHEILD workers. 

“Are you alright?” was the second question out of his mouth, because it had to be— Stark was pale and wide eyed. Not unlike he had been just hours before, after launching a nuclear warhead into space. 

The billionaire shook his head, rubbing the reactor in his chest as he let Steve help him to standing.

“Loki’s gone.” He looked up at him to say it, and Steve felt cold and strange— could it have been Loki that he’d fought with, after all? 

“He took the Tessaract with him.” snapped an older man— his hard blue gaze boring into Steve as if he had personally handed the damn thing to Loki and let him waltz out of the building. 

“I’m sorry. Who are you?” He didn’t mean to sound quite so harsh— sue him, he’d had a hard day. 

It seemed to amuse Tony, who snorted, and visibly ruffled Rumlow’s feathers— they’d only met once or twice, but Steve knew when he’d thrown somebody off their game. 

“Captain, this is Alexander Pierce— director of SHEILD.” Fury stepped in. 

Maybe not the best person to mess with, but Steve supposed he had done worse. 

“ _Captain_ ,” Pierce have a tight smile “That cube has been SHEILD property for nearly seventy years—“ 

“Then you know exactly what it’s capable of.” Steve cut in, the urgency of the moment overtaking his manners “Director Pierce— all due respect, Loki is our top priority. We find him, we find the cube. We were able to find it last time because of the radiation it gave off” he turned his attention back to Stark “can we do that again?”

He made a face, painfully nonchalant and making Steve want to punch him. 

“Yes, technically. If he’s left Earth, though, the big guy’s got the best chance.” He gestured blandly at Thor, and Steve nodded as he and the god locked eyes. 

“Can you do it?” 

“Of course— you search Midgard, and leave the other realms to me.” He nodded like a salute, and there was something about the other man that Steve _trusted_ , just like that. 

They needed to coordinate search and rescue, start cleaning up the literal and figurative mess that was laying out in the rubble of New York. Most of the world hadn’t even known that Steve was alive— they did now. There would have to be press, he’d have to speak on behalf of the team. There would be blowback for _losing Loki_ , losing the Tessaract, and Steve swallowed the angry bile clawing up his throat. 

He was starting to feel like he was drowning all over again— there were too many things to think about. 

There were too many things to think about, so he took his memory of his “other self” and all that he had said and done, and Steve buried it. He buried it deep in his mind— he didn’t have the emotional space to _hope_ , or even grieve. The world still needed Captain America, as long as Loki was out there. 

He let Stark lead him away, back toward the elevator, babbling about tech-jargon that Steve wouldn’t have even understood if he was taking about telegrams. Pierce called his name, but the doors were sliding shut. He wasn’t exactly cut up about it— he could talk to him later.

So, Steve had an antsy cup of coffee with Tony Stark while the billionaire lit up the map with gamma detectors. 

“So, you said in the comms that you had Loki on the fourteenth floor? When was that?” Tony queried, fixing Steve with a look that looked too much like Howard. 

“It was...” Steve wracked his brain for his memory just before he saw his other self “It was about 3 o clock, give or take.” He shrugged. His ribs still gave a sharp jolt at the movement, but he welcomed the pain. 

It kept him from thinking too hard. 

“That’s not possible— he was right there with us at 3.” Tony shook his head. 

“Well, it was definitely him, Tony! I thought this guy was some magic fucking alien! You think he can’t be in two places at once?”

Silence hung in the air for a long moment. The sudden anger pounded through Steve’s veins, spilling into his voice with the desperate confusion of _what had happened to him that day_. Tony’s eyebrows had damn near reached his hairline, and Steve was expecting him to start a fight. 

And then he let out a breathless chuckle, and said “Did you hit your head, Captain Boy Scout? Because that was a very naughty word.” 

Oh _fuck_. 

“Tony, I—“

“No, no. Don’t you dare apologize for making my day, I won’t allow it.” He flicked his hand and dismissed the floating screens that he’d been shifting through, giving Steve that _Howard_ face. “Tell ya what— im coordinating search and rescue out of the Tower. Stay for a couple days. I got the Widow and her brainwashed boyfriend on board, too. We’ll stay till the press dies down. Whattaya say?” 

What, really, was he _supposed_  to say? _I find you insufferably annoying, but thank you for your hospitality?_  How about _I’ve been in a new century for barely a month and aliens are coming out of the sky, the technology that I died to destroy is still out there, and my other self just told me my dead lover is still alive?_  He couldn’t just say _No, thank you_. 

“Thank you, Tony. I’d appreciate that.” 

He sipped his hot coffee, and felt the cold pit of dread in his gut widen.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Search and Rescue passed in a blur. Steve had directed the NYPD, the Fire Department, and the Avengers for hours and hours— but, if you asked, he wouldn’t be able to tell you a word of what he said. His stomach felt like it was tied in knots, his exhaustion starting to show through the cracks of his uniform. (If you asked him how much he’d slept since coming out of the ice, Steve probably wouldn’t be able to answer that, either).

But, they got out everyone that they could get out— more alive than dead. And that was a damn miracle. 

Steve tried not to look at the stretchers covered in sheets, or the body bags being taken off to God knows where. There were too many familiar forms— limp, young men who must have died afraid. There were heads of brown hair that stuck out the top of the sheets like beacons to the past, making Steve choke on the ashes in his mouth— or was it train smoke? Or was it snow? 

Steve focused on the living. He didn’t think about the words still ringing in his head like a concussion, he didn’t think about the last kiss Bucky had given him, and he _definitely_ didn’t let himself think about the key fact that Bucky was _never_ _buried_. They never found a body. 

He didn’t dare hope. He focused on the living. 

“Captain!” a SHIELD agent, an officer that Steve couldn’t quite place the name of, called out. “Cap, the director wants a word.” 

Steve nodded “Alright— give me just a second here.” 

“He wants to see you now.” 

There was something about the man that felt wrong. Steve felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, his enhanced mind zeroing in on the man in an instant. 

He was out of place, that’s for damn sure, in his neatly pressed suit and expensive tie. _He’s gonna need to shine his shoes after this,_  Steve thought, pursing his lips and cocking an eyebrow, _he’s getting blood and dust all over ‘em._  

“ _Okay_ then.” Steve hissed. What could Fury need so desperately? 

He followed the man to the command center they’d set up in front of Grand Central. He looked harmless enough, but Steve still watched closely— he hovered his hand over his right hip, there was just the slightest crease in his suit jacket on that side. 

He was carrying. And he was keeping himself at the ready— for _Steve_? 

“Captain Rogers, Sir.” 

It was Pierce, not Fury, that they landed in front of, and Steve bit the inside of his cheek to keep his face impassive. 

“Thank you, Sitwell. You can go.” 

_Sitwell_  still hovered at the threshold of the tent for a moment. Steve could feel his eyes burning into his back. He was at the center of _something_ , but he didn’t know what. 

“ _Leave_.” And then those cold eyes trained themselves on Steve “Captain— I think we may have gotten off to a rocky start. It’s an honor to meet you. My father served in the 101st.” 

He extended a hand, and Steve took it without thought. He didn’t have a choice, and besides, his Ma had always said to _keep your enemies close_. 

There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that that was what Pierce was, although he couldn’t say why. 

“Can I ask why this couldn’t wait until later? The Search and Rescue effort is still underway.” He replied, hoping he managed to hide his impatience. He probably didn’t. 

Pierce chuckled “All business— I appreciate that about you. This will only take a moment, I wanted to ask you about a job.” 

That... that wasn’t what Steve had expected. 

“I— What kind of job?” 

“The kind with me and my Strike team, at SHIELD headquarters.” 

“Oh.” 

Pierce looked at him, studied him. And Steve felt like maybe his reaction had been underwhelming, but he couldn’t muster up anything else. 

“Oh? That’s all you’ve got, Cap?” 

“I’m sorry, Director, it’s just very sudden—“ 

He cut him off with a chuckle, slapping him on the shoulder like they were friends or something. 

“Captain, you’re the greatest hero of all time. A master strategist. This battle has only solidified SHIELD’s concerns about the galaxies beyond our own, and having you on our side isn’t just desirable, it’s a _necessity_.” He paused, still studying him, and Steve couldn’t think of what the older man could possibly be looking for “Especially with Loki in the wind, and both the cube and scepter missing.” 

That sent his heart right into his stomach “The _scepter_  is missing, too?” He managed to get out. 

Pierce’s expression was unreadable and grim “Yes, Captain. I have reason to believe there is a mole within SHIELD— and it’s very important that this stays between us— but _this_ is why I need you. I need to know _you’re on our side_.” 

“I’d have to leave New York— I cant go so soon after an invasion, I—“ 

“You’re Captain _America_ , Not Captain New York!”

Steve took a deep inhale, clenching his jaw. He took a step back from Director Pierce, and weighed his options. 

It didn’t seem like he had any. 

“I’ll join you at Headquarters when the initial clean up of the city is done.” It wasn’t a request, and Steve knew it was rude, but this was the only compromise he’d make. Pierce didn’t seem happy about it, but he still shook the hand that Steve extended. 

It all felt strange. He felt like he’d failed a test. 

“We’ll be in touch, Captain.” 

Steve knew a dismissal when he heard one. So, he turned on his heel and left the command tent.

 

* * *

 

 

Dinner at the Tower was nothing but conjecture about Loki and the cube, with a healthy dose of Stark’s old man jokes, and something Tony called _Pad Thai_. It was a bit different than anything Steve had ever had, but it wasn’t _bad_. 

Food nowadays was just so _salty_.

“So, you _can’t_  get drunk?” Tony mused, his own brown gaze looking blurry as he looked at Steve at the end of the evening. 

The last time he had tried to get drunk, he’d all but wrecked the remains of a London pub. The last time he’d tried to get drunk, he was trying to drown out Bucky’s screaming in his ears, and wishing maybe he was dead, too. 

“Days like today, I wish I could.” He replied drily. He could practically hear Peggy in his head— _Steve, always so dramatic_ —but at least it was honest. 

He wanted to be drunk so goddamn badly, it made his brain hurt. He wanted to drink until he forgot where and when he was, what he’d died for, what his legacy had become, and especially those earth-shattering words: “ _Bucky is alive_ ”. 

The billionaire hummed in that relaxed way that only comes with a good buzz— jealousy simmered in Steve’s gut, and he hated himself a little more. 

“Lighten up, Cap.” Bruce was the one to chime in, slapping him on the shoulder “Thor’s on the lookout for his brother, we’ve got eyes on every satellite in the world looking for the Tessaract, and all the civilians that could’ve been saved by search and rescue _have been saved_.” 

Steve let the silence linger for a moment, clenching his jaw to keep his damn mouth shut, trying to appear as if he wasn’t a tea kettle about to boil over. 

“Maybe not, Bruce...” The Widow spoke up, one perfect eyebrow arched as she looked right through Steve. 

“I mean, we won the battle, yeah.” Clint nodded, swigging his beer “But, Cap’s right— Loki and the cube are still out there!” 

“And we’ll be ready for him when he comes back—“ Stark started in, but Barton wasn’t having it. 

“You didn’t just spend a week with that psycho taking over your brain, Stark! And now we’ve got a city in fucking turmoil—“ 

“Pep has set up a whole junket of press for tomorrow, all for the city to see us, to build a brand for the Avengers!” 

God, that sounded awful. Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, the arguing voices all blending together into a mess of garbled noise. _Building a Brand_ sounded a hell of a lot like another USO tour. Another vaudeville production. 

Bucky had always hated the Captain America image. He joked about the tights, he sang the stupid song, he did “dramatic readings” of those comics around the fire with the Howlies. Sure, Bucky joked, but there was an undercurrent of steel there. When Steve felt like he could finally take off the shield for the day, Bucky’s hands would cup his face and study him in their tent. His gaze was so discerning, as if daring Steve to try to hide from him. 

It was the only dare Steve had ever passed up.

Buck would kiss him, hard and mean, only letting up when Steve went pliant underneath him. Only then would he bury his face in Steve’s neck and say “there you are... there’s my Stevie.” 

He used to pepper soft, wet kisses up his throat, squeeze his waist, his thighs. 

It was the only time Steve felt small. 

“That damn shield... none of ‘em know you, Steve. Not like I do. All they know is _Captain America_...” he’d whisper, pressing them flush. 

With Buck, he could have those stolen moments— those times where he wasn’t anything but Steve Rogers. They were few and far between. Sometimes weeks passed between the nights of leave where they could slip into a hotel room, or Bucky could slide into his bedroll. 

The _production_  of Captain America was tiring. 

And now, Bucky wasn’t here. He _couldn’t be_. 

“Cap?”

He jumped a little, shoved back into the present. 

Everyone was watching him. Steve felt the heat rising in his cheeks, his heart pounding in his ears as the memories faded to nothing. 

He wasn’t Steve anymore. He was _Cap_. 

He gripped his drink until he felt the crystal give the tiniest crack, trying to keep his hands from shaking. He forced out a long exhale to loosen the tight feeling in his throat, only for a burning sensation to start behind his eyes. 

_Not here. He couldn’t do any of this here._

“Im gonna turn in.” He stood abruptly, desperation clawing upward from inside his gut “Good work today.” 

The elevator doors were closing behind him before anyone could say a thing. 

He figured he’d slept for long enough, but he still _tried_. Steve tossed and turned, even dared to close his eyes. But, the mattress was so _soft_ , and he was sinking fast— it felt like he could sink right through to the floor. 

Like sleeping on a marshmallow. 

Before he’d woken up, Steve had never felt anything like it. 

He and Buck had shared a tiny, lumpy mattress with springs that dug into your ribs, and squeaked loud enough to wake the whole building. 

In the war, he’d slept in a thin bedroll, or on a cot if he was lucky. 

Stark Tower was cushy and claustrophobic, and Steve _hated_  it. 

He’d barely closed his eyes at all, and watched the sun rise over a city that seemed like just another ghost in his life. 

Maybe Steve needed to get out of New York. Maybe DC would be a needed change. 

He was still thinking it as he made his way to the first of a thousand press conferences. Steve put on the suit, his mind a million miles away. 

When Loki— or _whoever_ they were— fought him, he’d been wearing the same uniform. He’d had the same _compass_. 

He had been holding the case with the scepter. 

Had Loki escaped with that, too? 

He was blindsided, stepping out of the car to the flashing cameras and shouting of journalists. 66 _years_  on ice, and they still hadn’t figured out a way to make flashbulbs less horrible? 

He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard around the bitterness, took a deep breath to clear his clouded mind, and walked straight to the podium.

 

* * *

 

He could see the headlines now: _Long Dead Hero Returns in the Nick of Time_ , or _The Man out of Time_ , or something. Whatever it was, he hoped that they would mention the other Avengers, as well.

If Bucky was out there, would he see those headlines? He must be so _old—_ Steve nearly broke down right there at the podium the second it crossed his mind.

He’d missed so much. He had missed so many _people’s lives_ — people he loved. But, now they were all dead. 

Bucky, too. It had to be— Bucky _must_ be dead. 

“Captain Rogers, how can you explain your miraculous recovery?” 

“Captain, what’s the strangest thing you’ve experienced about the 21st century?” 

He answered each question with the most bland and impersonal answers he could manage. Tony’s girl, Pepper, was standing just off stage. He knew Stark would see this, the team would see this— the whole world was probably watching him. Steve was a relic, after all. He was an exhibit. 

He credited Dr. Erskine and SHEILD’s remarkable doctors with his survival and his defrosting. He didn’t mention the agony of his nerve endings coming back to life, or the confusion of thinking he was still dead. He didn’t mention breaking out of SHEILD’s bullshit movie set, and running through Times Square. 

“I don’t know if you recall, Ma’am, but there were aliens falling from the sky yesterday— safe to say, that’s the strangest thing about the future thus far.” He joked, making sure his smile wasn’t too sharp as the crowd laughed with him. 

There were vague, general questions. Then, there were questions about New York and Loki, and the Avengers and SHEILD. And then... 

“Captain, have you visited any of the World War Two Memorials erected in your honor since your return? The one in Brooklyn is a testament to Bucky Barnes.”

He didn’t know that that existed. SHEILD hadn’t included that in his welcome packet. The summer breeze on Steve’s face felt cold, like it had on that mountain in the alps. He couldn’t stop his breath from shuddering as he tried to keep himself together.

“I haven’t been to any of the memorials. I haven’t visited any of the Commando’s graves. I haven’t visited Peggy yet.” He listed them into the microphone, staring down the reporter. He wasn’t sure where the sudden anger had come from, but he had to swallow a lump of protective rage to get through the words. “ _Sergeant James Barnes_ worked hard for his rank. You would do well to address him properly.” 

The temperature in their cornered off area of Central Park seemed to drop ten degrees. Steve gripped his podium like a lifeline. He couldn’t let his hands start to shake, he had to show these people that he was Captain America— he had _control_. 

A small hand settled on his shoulder, then, and he turned to see Miss Potts smiling tersely beside him. 

“That’s time. No more questions today.” She leaned into the microphone, and a tight knot in his chest loosened with relief as she led him off the stage. 

The car ride back to the Tower was silent. Stark’s driver had waited for them at Fifth Avenue, on the edge of the Park, and Steve didn’t make eye contact with a single soul as he slid into the back seat. He couldn’t have relaxed the tension in his shoulders if he’d tried. Pepper slipped into the seat beside him, and Steve hated to be rude, but he couldn’t think of anything to break the silence. 

“I’m sorry, I hope...” He croaked as they started back toward the Tower, clearing his throat “I hope that I wasn’t too short with him.” 

She smiled kindly “Your press conferences are a dream compared to Tony’s— you were maybe a little harsh, but it’s nothing we can’t handle.” 

Steve nodded, already checking out, watching the city pass by his window. At least the garment district hadn’t changed too much. 

Pepper broke the silence again after a long few moments of peace. 

“Captain Rogers, how long has it been since the war?” 

That got his attention “Is this a trick question?” his voice dripped sarcasm. 

“Like, for _you_. How long has it been since you were in the fight?” 

“Six weeks.” He managed. 

She nodded like she understood something new, looked him up and down with her smart gaze. Steve had underestimated Pepper Potts. 

“So, it’s been two months since Sergeant Barnes fell.” 

_62 days_ , Steve wanted to correct her, but he didn’t. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, instead. He gave a single, jerky nod. 

Her hand rested on his knee, then, forcing him to look at her. 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Steve.” She said.

”Thank you, Miss Potts.” 

Steve nearly broke the door getting out of the car as they pulled up to the Tower. He retaught himself how to breathe as he walked, blinking rapidly against the sting in his eyes. 

He didn’t stop until he reached his empty apartment floor. He punched a hole through the foyer wall, he broke an ugly, modern chair, and he finally came to curl up on the cold floor by the window. 

He was sorry, too.

 

* * *

 

The days were nothing but work— clean up, press conferences, SHEILD meetings— and the nights were nothing but pacing, staring out the windows, sketching familiar faces on napkins and the backs of file papers.

The furniture had been replaced. The hole he had punched through the wall was patched. Stark didn’t say a word, and Steve was so goddamn grateful. Of all the times that he would’ve thought the billionaire would be ready to lay into him, he seemed to not even care. 

Tony wasn’t so bad, when the world wasn’t ending.

It was night three when the robot in the ceiling startled Steve out of his moping. 

“ _Master Stark is requesting your assistance in his laboratory, floor B15_.”

“Okay...” He hesitantly replied. How do you respond to a robot? Was he supposed to sign off? Like a walkie talkie? “Um, thank you.”

“ _You are welcome, Captain Rogers._ ” 

He must’ve been losing his mind— the thing almost sounded _pleased_  by Steve’s manners. He shook his head and chuckled. 

Bucky would have loved all this futuristic tech junk. He was always the one with the “regular hobbies”, as he called them. Dancing and science fairs, not social justice and art, like Steve. 

He hopped in the elevator without a single look at the time— he knew it was nearly 2 am. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that Tony knew he would be awake. Insomnia was something the two of them had in common. 

If Bucky liked the hovering car at the Science Fair, he would have gone gaga for Stark’s lab. Iron Man suits lined the walls, holographic blueprints lit up every surface, and in the center of it all was Tony himself. 

At least, his legs. Steve assumed the rest of him was underneath the Bugatti he had propped up. 

“Good Morning, Tony.” He greeted drily, a little spark of humor lifting his lips into a smirk when Stark’s head collided with something under the car. 

He rolled himself out, rubbing his forehead, goggles on that made his eyes look like saucers. 

“Oh, shut up, Cap— as if you sleep any more than me.” 

Sometimes, he almost liked Tony Stark. 

Not enough to help him up from his spot on the floor, though. Stark didn’t seem to be getting up anyway. 

“My jack gave out on the back end of the car— wanna put those muscles to good use?” 

Steve shrugged, nodded “Sure. What’re you doing to this thing anyway?” 

“I’m adjusting the carburetors and the pistons to—“ 

“How about in plain English?” He sighed, getting his hands under the bumper and lifting. 

“Ah, that’s perfect! I owe you one, Captain!” he trailed off as if Steve hadn’t said anything at all. 

He was fine with it, he didn’t mind. 

Steve zoned out while Tony worked. The lab was enormous. Cars and motorcycles lined the far wall, and tools were in a huge bank of cabinets by the holograms and there were  _robots_. Actual, real robots wandered the space, just waiting for orders from Tony. 

“Tony, do you believe in time travel?” He asked, surprising himself and apparently surprising Tony, who hit his head again. 

“Gah, fuck— No. Yes. I mean, that’s a pretty open ended question, Blondie.” He popped up on the other end of the car, training his goggles on Steve and still rubbing his forehead. “Do I believe that there is a possibility that people can suspend their cell processes and wait for a new time— like, say, freezing themselves— yeah, obviously. Of course I believe in that, you’re standing right in front of me.” 

Steve rolled his eyes. 

“But, do I believe in a DeLorean that can travel to the fifties, a magical phone booth, or a vast, multidimensional array of parallel universes? You’d have to give me a couple days to read up and get back to you.” The goggles came off, and Steve almost laughed at the ridiculous circles around Stark’s eyes, the only part of his face not filthy with soot and engine grease. 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up— y’know, you don’t look too great yourself. Not as shiny and golden as usual.” 

“Well, it is 3 am, Tony.” He deflected. 

“3 am of what day?” He questioned, and Steve wasn’t sure if he was actually unsure of the day, or if he was testing Steve. 

Either way, Steve had to think about it for a couple beats longer than he should have. 

“You can put the car down now.” Tony said. He was over by a coffeemaker that Steve hadn’t noticed. It burbled and percolated as Stark turned his _Howard_  gaze on him with an arched eyebrow. “Coffee?” 

“Sure.” 

That was how Steve came to be sitting across from Tony Stark at the hard metal counter in the lab. He clutched his hot coffee mug, and for all their spats, he almost felt comfortable with the man. 

There was something familiar and welcome about Stark. He looked like Howard, he talked like Howard— he was smart like Howard, but like someone else, too. 

“Was Peggy around when you were growing up?” He asked, sipping his coffee. 

Tony hummed “Aunt Peg— she’s my godmother. Didn’t anyone give you the file?” 

They had, and he was sure Tony knew that, but it wasn’t the same as _talking_  to someone. 

Steve just nodded— he could see it. He could see her influence on Tony, and it was strange. Unnerving, but calming. Familiar.

He sipped his coffee. 

“She’s living in DC, with a gaggle of SHIELD-issued nurses and aids...” 

“D’you visit her?” Steve asked. He was ready for the standard excuses of being too busy, of keeping his distance— but Tony only nodded. 

“Every second Friday I take the suit down to DC for lunch. I make sure those nurses and aids are treating her right.” He paused, sipping from his own mug “Have you? Visited?” 

Tony already knew the answer to that, too. Steve knew it because everyone and their mother had heard him say so at his press conference. 

He stared down into his black coffee, seeing a sliver of his own reflection. The shame couldn’t be helped, curling in his gut like steam. He sighed. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to, I’ve just...” He clenched his jaw and pointedly didn’t mention that he was _scared_  to see her beautiful face all old and gray. He didn’t want to see the evidence of how long he’d left her. “Pierce offered me a job in DC, I’m gonna head out a little early to see her.” 

“ _Pierce_. That bureaucratic bundle of joy— perfect for a soldier like you.” He rolled his eyes. Steve was about ask him what the Hell he meant by that, but Tony beat him to it “Pierce is _too good_. Turned down the goddamn Nobel Peace Prize. He’s got too much power to be trusted, but he shakes the right hands and puts SHIELD people in the right places, I guess.” 

Steve smirked, nodded “Y’know, people could say that about you, too— too much power to be trusted.” 

Tony clutched his chest with an exaggerated pout “That hurts my feelings, Rogers, really, I’m wounded. It’s a good thing that I’m already certain that I _do_ have your trust.” that made Steve smirk, and Stark smiled back, but it faded fast. 

They sipped their coffee in silence for a moment. 

Stark sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose with his motor oil smeared hand, and fixed Steve with a look that wasn’t _Howard_  at all— he felt like he was staring Peggy right in the face. 

That was when he realized that, despite himself, he _did_  trust Tony. 

“You’ve read the file about her, right? You know that she...”

Steve nodded “I read about her diagnosis.” 

They both sipped their coffee— Steve, so he didn’t have to acknowledge the deep, freezing cold dread that surrounded his heart. Tony drank because he wanted something stronger, something to help him forget the pain of Aunt Peggy, confused, calling him _Howard_. 

“I’ll call the head nurse, let them know you’re coming.” 

“Thank you, Tony. I’m leaving at the end of the week.” 

“So are the rest of the SHIELD team— Romanov and her little birdie. You gonna hitch a ride?” 

Steve smiled, then, shaking his head. 

“I’ve got my own ride.”

 

* * *

The bike was old. But, so was he, he supposed. Steve didn’t mind. It was mint condition, too, he’d taken it to one of the best mechanics in the city. 

It was the one thing since coming back from the ice that still felt _right_. 

He packed light— it wasn’t like he owned much. Just a few changes of clothes, the essentials, his sketchbook, and his files. Peggy, the Howlies, _Bucky_. 

Natasha had texted him two addresses: Peggy’s, and his own new one. A SHIELD-issued apartment a stone’s throw from the capital building. He didn’t trust Pierce, he didn’t trust SHIELD, he _barely_  even trusted Natasha and Clint— but, he would move into the apartment, move into the new city, and try to glean as much information as he could. 

He was hardly a spy, but the only thing he could still cling to was _doing what was right._ Even if he wasn’t sure what that was anymore.

He buried the events of the Battle of New York as deep as he dared, focusing on nothing but the stretch of road between him and something _new._

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! There should be about three more chapters after this, and there are some cool things coming up! I’m very proud of this fic so far! 
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think! I love getting feedback from you folks!!

Peggy’s house suited her. It wasn’t ostentatiously big, but it was comfortable. She was never one to boast, but she was never shy— it was nice, to see her success spelled out in the manicured garden beside her front door. She had thrived. Peggy had _thrived_ , and while standing there on her porch, Steve was so proud that he was barely even bitter that he hadn’t been there to see it. 

If anyone deserved this— the beautiful home, the gardens, the gallery of family photos and memories decorating the front hall— it was _Director Peggy Carter._

Steve followed her nurse through the house on autopilot, his gaze roving over antique furniture that was probably as old as the war. There were wedding pictures, pictures of chubby laughing babies, plaques commemorating decades of exemplary service... He wasn’t nervous until they were crossing the threshold into the parlor. Until he saw the little old woman in the day bed. 

He nearly dropped his flowers, schooling his expression as much as he could, even though his heart had leapt right up into his throat. He swallowed hard. 

She was so... 

“I’m sure I must be quite the sight. You, however, haven’t changed a day.” 

The shock was enough to make his eyes water, but he blinked a few times, fumbling for the words he needed. 

“Peg, I- I don’t mean to—“ 

She chuckled “Still haven’t the slightest clue of how to talk to a woman, either. Come sit where I can get a look at you.” 

It was such a wild thing, looking at her. Because, she still looked like _her_ , the woman in that bed was _Peggy Carter_. Her big brown eyes were still inquisitive and warm, her smile was still secretive— but her skin was wrinkled and her soft curls were white and silver now. Steve wanted to cry, forcing his legs to take him the last few steps to the chair by her bed. 

The afternoon sun lit her up, and she still glowed. Peggy Carter at 94 was every stitch as beautiful as she had been at 25. Steve told her so, taking the delicate hand that she held out to him. 

She beamed, squeezing his fingers in her palm. “When they told me the news, I thought I was dreaming. But, here you are.” 

“Here I am...” he replied, the bitterness rearing it’s ugly head. He swallowed it down and forced a smile. 

“I’m so sorry, Darling boy.” 

“Don’t know what there is to be sorry fo—“ 

“Oh hush, you know what I mean.” She slapped his wrist “You’re a bloody terrible liar.” 

He managed a watery chuckle. She was damn right, as usual. 

“Yes ma’am...” and there were more pictures, meticulously ordered on the table beside her— more babies, that handsome, smiling fella that must have been her husband— all in sepia tones that Steve remembered from his own life, his own world. 

“You oughta be proud, Peg. I’ve been seeing all these pictures— I read your SHIELD file.” 

“Oh, I have lived a life, haven’t I?” She grinned “My nieces and nephews are some of my greatest joys... and Anthony, of course.” 

He felt his brow furrow, but he wasn’t particularly surprised, he supposed “You and your husband never—“

“Oh no. We made the decision not to have children early on— my child was always SHIELD, and he was rather dedicated to his own work.” 

Steve nodded, a slight smile tipping his lips. Peggy had never been one to do what was expected. “I’m sure you had every busy body on the block talking about you.”

They both laughed “Oh, Darling! They could talk all they liked!” She sighed, her smile drifting into something sad that Steve couldn’t explain “I’ve gotten all that I ever wanted out of life. My only regret is that you never got to have yours.” 

It stung. It hurt so badly he couldn’t breathe for that first second after she said it. It was his regret, too. It was his regret that he’d come home to a lonely world that he didn’t know how to live in, 60 years separated from the symbol he’d become, with the weapons he’d died to put into the ocean being made by the very people he was trying to protect... Steve had a lot of regrets. 

“You’re all tense, Love. Take a breath.” Peggy coaxed, patting his hand. “What’s wrong?” 

He didn’t know how much he should say— how much he _could_  say. SHIELD was Peggy’s _child,_ how could he do that to her legacy? 

“I... I’ve always tried to be a good man. To fight, to serve. But, in this world... I don’t know what’s right anymore.” 

It felt so good to finally say it out loud that he didn’t even mind when she rolled her eyes.

“Always so dramatic— you know what’s right, Steve. Trust that brilliant mind of yours, even if it means...” she paused, and Steve frowned. Her eyes were watering, going red around the edges, and he couldn’t quite tell— was it just age? Or were those tears? “You’ve always known what was right. After you were gone, we.. we rather mucked it up.” 

Without thinking for a single second, Steve was shaking his head “No, no— Peg, you did all you could do! Knowing you helped found SHIELD is half of why I took this job in the first place!” 

Those were _definitely_ tears. Her voice rasped “We did what we had to do, Steve. Sometimes, I wish I’d had the nerve to... to start from scratch, to—“ she was cut off by a fat tear rolling down her cheek, a cough rattling in her chest. 

Steve wiped away the wetness with his thumb, anything to fix whatever he’d done to make her so— 

He turned around to fill a glass with water. It was just enough to clear her throat, to calm her down. He’d barely been gone for longer than a moment, only to help her take a sip and see a stranger look back at him. 

Peggy’s gaze was guarded, confused, disbelieving, and Steve had nearly completely forgotten her diagnosis. She was so sharp from the moment he walked in the door, but now... 

“... Steve?” She whispered, he voice barely there at all. 

His heart broke. He nodded, smiling, stupidly hoping that this wasn’t what he thought it was.

“You-you’re _alive_?” her rheumy eyes overflowed with tears, and she lifted her wrinkled hand to cup his cheek like he was going to disappear. “ _Oh_ , but it’s been _so long_ — I told them, Steve. I told them _not_ to hire them... I knew you would’ve _hated_ it—“ 

Wait, what? “Peg— Peggy, slow down. What’re you talking about?” 

“— it was _safer this way_ , that’s what Howard said, he didn’t _like it_ either, but—“ 

“Captain Rogers, she’s getting agitated— step outside with me please?” One of the nurses said, tugging on his arm, but he barely heard her over the thousands of questions ringing out in his mind like alarm bells. 

“Peggy?”

“Captain Rogers, _please_ —“ 

He let himself be pried from her bedside only when the head nurse was taking his place, a syringe in her hand, speaking in a low voice. 

Steve just started walking. Just forced one foot in front of the other, his breathing labored through his tight chest— the panic felt so much like asthma that it left him almost as confused about the year and time as Peggy. 

He burst out onto the porch, heaving for air, trying to stop trembling. 

What had she meant? Who they had _hired_? What did she _mean_?

 

* * *

 

SHIELD headquarters— the Triskelion— was huge. It was modern and bright, the dark stone floors reflecting the sunlight that poured through the endless windows. Even Stark Tower was a more pleasant place to be. 

Steve had his problems with modern architecture— well, they all felt the same, didn’t they? Another blank, empty bank of windows, reaching new heights. He wanted to yell about craftsmanship and artistry. The Chrysler Building, Rockefeller center, Radio City, Grand Central Station— they made you _feel_  things. 

Of course, that made him sound terribly old, didn’t it? 

Steve clenched his jaw as he entered the building, feeling exposed. There were eyes on him, he could feel them from every side. 

The real problem with the Triskelion, he thought, was the lack of strategic value. This was supposed to be a government headquarters, a nerve center of sensitive information, and Steve couldn’t find a single defensible position in the event of an attack. 

Not that he was expecting one... 

Steve took his mountain of paperwork from the front desk and received his orders— he was to report to the director, 51st floor, turn left at the elevator. 

He was bracing himself for Pierce and his keen gaze. Steve exhaled a long, slow sigh, trying to establish a poker face that Natasha wouldn’t laugh at, only to turn left and see _Fury’s_ name on the door. 

That was better than Pierce, he supposed. With Fury, at least Steve _knew_ that he couldn’t be trusted. Something hot and wrathful burned in his gut, suddenly and fiercely— every time Steve thought he knew what the Hell was going on, it was _something else_. 

He rolled his eyes at his own stupidity and forced the anger down, rapping on the door with three clear knocks. 

“Captain— I was starting to think you’d stood us up.” the one eyed man greeted him. He sounded pleasantly surprised, but Steve couldn’t count on that. For all he knew, Fury and Pierce had been tailing him since New York. 

“I had a few things to take care of.” 

Fury nodded sagely, like he already knew everything Steve had to say. A prickle of irritation crawled up his spine. 

He’d trusted SHIELD. He’d trusted them with his reintegration into this new world, he’d been willing to hop onto their fancy hellicarrier and fight for them. But, all Steve could see when he looked at Fury, Pierce, Rumlow— even the guy at the front desk— all he saw were HYDRA weapons in an active locker. Weapons that they didn’t understand, that they _couldn’t_ understand. Not like Steve did. 

“How _is_ Director Carter? I can’t imagine that that was easy for either of you.” 

There was a vein popping in Steve’s neck, he could _feel it_. 

“You wanted me back in the world— you don’t get a say in how I do that.” His voice was ice cold, but Steve didn’t care “I wanted to see Peggy, so I did.” 

“At ease, Soldier.” There was a shift in his expression, something damn near _genuine_ “I’m not here to psychoanalyse you. Just welcoming you to the team is all.” 

There was a beat of silence where Steve felt very much as if he was being analyzed. 

“I saw your press conference.” 

“Oh?” 

He nodded “Yeah. Barton’s taking some time off— I figured I ought to extend the same offer to you.” 

Steve couldn’t help the scoff, hooking his hands on his belt just for something to do with them that wasn’t balling them into fists “We’ve talked about this before— I think 70 years was long enough out of the game.” 

“Alright, Captain.” He replied, hands up in mock surrender “Romanov is waiting for you outside. She’ll be giving you the grand tour.” 

Steve nodded curtly, weighing Peggy’s words about _who they hired_ against the known fact that _Nick Fury couldn’t be trusted_... 

He got all the way to the door, hand gripping the knob, when he made his choice. 

“Nick,” He turned back around “Peggy mentioned some regrets about someone hired by SHIELD. Would you know anything about that?” 

He probably had a full transcript of their conversation, anyway. If anyone would know, he would. 

Fury pursed his lips, looking Steve up and down in a silent assessment “There are some questions you don’t want to know the answers to, Captain.” 

“You don’t get to make that choice—“ 

“Actually, I do. And I just did.” 

The doorknob had molded to his hand with Steve’s white knuckle grip. 

Well, that was a dare if ever he’d heard one. And he was taking it. He’d fucking find out what they were hiding. 

Natasha was waiting just outside the door, eyebrow cocked, smirk in place. Lethal as ever. 

She looked so different, Steve might have walked right by her in his determined rage, if it weren’t for the red hair.

It was straightened. Longer. 

He stopped dead in his tracks. 

“Miss Romanov.” He greeted through gritted teeth, falling back on the politeness he could depend on. 

“Captain. What’s got you all pissed?” 

He shrugged, completely unconvincing “Just adjusting— nice hair.” 

She huffed a laugh, leading the way back to the elevator “Thanks. You know how it is— aliens invade, and you gotta spice things up.” 

“Of course. The aliens just weren’t enough for you?” 

“You’re telling me you came here for a change of scenery, Rogers? You’re looking for a fight— you take wearing your heart on your sleeve to a new level. We’ll have to work on that.” 

The elevator was too quiet. They went floor by floor, the Potomac stretched out behind them. 

“If I were to ask you where all the personell files of SHIELD employees are kept, what would you say?” He broke the silence, watching for a reaction out of the corner of his eye. 

“What? Looking for a new girlfriend? I’d recommend Tinder before I told you to go traipsing through SHIELD files—“ 

“No, no, I—“ He could feel the heat blooming in his cheeks— that goddamn blush that Bucky used to love so much— and he suddenly wanted to be swallowed by the floor. 

“Relax, just seeing what you’d say.” she chuckled, and, despite himself, Steve liked her. “Lucky for you, you’re getting the tour from basement to rooftop— but, all personell going back to the 60s was digitized a few years ago by some poor intern. You’re better off searching the World Wide Web.” 

Her smile was dry, but her eyes sparkled like Peggy’s did. He couldn’t help but think that they could’ve been friends. Those two together, Natasha Romanov and Peggy Carter in her prime? They could take over the whole damn world. 

An idea struck him, then. Natasha wasn’t the only person with Peggy’s discerning gaze, and Steve definitely wasn’t the only person who distrusted SHIELD. 

He waited until he got back to his apartment to make the call. He ignored the sparse furniture and empty shelves, didn’t let himself dwell on all of that shit. 

Steve had a mission again. 

“Tony, it’s Steve.” 

“ _Caller ID, Gramps. I know_.“

“Ha ha, whatever, I'm still getting used to this.” Tony Stark sucked. The future sucked. “I was hoping to call in a favor.” 

“ _Oh, were you? Need dating advice?“_

_Jesus_ , why did everyone think he was trying to date? “No, Tony, _God_ —“ 

“ _I’m just saying, 94 years is a long time to keep that sex bomb light under a bushel_ —“ 

“ _Stark_!“ Steve was so goddamn glad that no one was there to see him blush— for once, he was so glad to be alone. 

“ _Okay, Okay. What is it, Capsicle_?” 

“I need you to hack SHIELD.” 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH NO IM SORRY THIS HAS TAKEN SO LONG TO PUBLISH! You can count on decently regular posts now, until the end of this fic. I was out of the country for a bit, and my WiFi was spotty at best, so I couldn’t upload anything. 
> 
> Here’s chapter four! I’ve dubbed it The Sam Saga— some of the dialogue is straight from the movie, but it’s still good, I promise. (And I don’t own any part of marvel, this is all for fun, I’m not making money, no copyright infringement intended). 
> 
> As always, PLEASE drop me a comment and tell me what you think! I thrive on your feedback, and updates are more likely to happen in a timely manner if you do! Thank you!

DC was _different_  from New York. It was cleaner, it was more spread out, it wasn’t as crowded— at least, in comparison to one of the biggest cities in the world. And, at 5 AM on a Sunday morning. 

Steve supposed that, maybe under different circumstances, he might even _enjoy_ it there. 

But, the circumstances weren’t different, and a part of Steve— a part that he had to fight and force down on a daily basis— was absolutely repulsed by Washington. It simply wasn’t New York. It wasn’t _home._

Nowhere was really _home_ , though. Not anymore. 

It was hard to find the willpower to even appreciate the little things— like the sunrise painting the sky every morning on his run. The delicate pastel clouds, the first rays of light over the Lincoln memorial and the Washington monument. His feet beat on the pavement, the Mall blissfully empty as always. Steve just ran harder and faster, his mind stretched to capacity. 

The world had changed, but the war was still pounding on in his head. He couldn’t sleep more than an hour without a wave of crushing dread collapsing over him. 

_Bucky_  could be _alive_ somewhere, but only according to a carbon copy of _Steve_ _himself_ — Loki. It was the only explanation. 

Oh, yeah. And Loki was still out there with the tessaract and maybe the scepter.

Then, there was the matter of SHIELD. They couldn’t be trusted. Peggy had all but said it herself. Not to mention, he was waiting on a call from Tony Stark, who was nearly committing _treason_ to help Steve dig through SHIELD archives. He’d said it would take time, that he’d have to “be sneaky” to get results without getting caught. 

He didn’t want to be pushy, but it had been nearly a _week_. 

Steve ran faster, waiting to sweat, waiting for the burn in his lungs to mask his internal panic. His feet hit the ground so hard that he was surprised that he didn’t leave craters in the pavement. 

Lap 1, lap 2, lap 3... At around lap 5, another person had joined his route. 

He was a handsome black man. He wore what looked like nondescript clothes, at first, until Steve caught the insignia on his sweatshirt: Air Force. 

There were three things that Steve had resolutely refused to do since waking up in this strange time. 

  1. He wouldn’t look himself up on the internet— it could be helpful for some things, but he was perceptive enough to pick up on people’s _preconceived ideas_ about him. Steve didn’t have the energy to get angry about _that_ , too. 
  2. He wouldn’t go to any of these memorials in his name. It didn’t feel right to be honored, not when he didn’t _actually die_. Steve had seen his headstone. He had seen Bucky’s, too. It was right beside him... He’d bawled like a child, nearly vomited. There was no body under either of those headstones. There was no reason for Steve to be alive, let alone _honored_ in a world without Bucky Barnes. In a world where Steve had let him fall. 
  3. Steve had refused to talk to any fellow servicemen or women. He’d never be able to properly say it. He couldn’t describe his pain properly— not when their wars were a lifetime apart.



The point of spilling your guts to fellow veterans is to not feel so alone. But, Steve only felt worse than ever at the very _idea_ of trying to explain a 20th Century war to a 21st century vet. 

Seeing another serviceman that morning, though, sent a thrill of nervous electricity up his spine. Did he want to cut his run short? Did he want to go home? Did he want to _talk_? 

It was less than clear, even to Steve, why he felt such an instant kinship to Mr. Flyboy, but he found himself stealing glances every time he passed. 

“On your left.” he huffed, lap after lap. A little vindictive glee sparked in his blood, pumping through his veins while the other runner got more and more annoyed. 

He tried to keep up at his normal, human jog, and Steve would’ve called it _cute_ if he was more of an asshole. 

But, Steve Rogers was still a gentleman— at least, he tried to be— and only allowed himself a tiny smirk as he ran circles around and around the National Mall. 

“Need a medic?” 

“I need a new set of lungs” he chuckled “Dude, you just ran like 13 miles in thirty minutes.” 

He was propped up against a tree, catching his breath, and Steve’s heart raced, his stomach aching— why was he having this conversation? He had a _rule_ about talking to other vets— 

“I guess I got a late start.” 

It was strange to talk to people again. Steve hadn’t talked to anyone without an express reason since... 

He didn’t really know. He’d never been one for small talk with strangers, yet _here he was_ , like a pod person in that movie Natasha made him watch.

This guy was easy to talk to, though. For a minute, Steve almost felt like he was still at home, still in his own time. It was comfortable. 

His name was Sam Wilson. Para-Rescue. Two tours. He had an easy, charming smile. 

Bucky had had a smile like that, before Azzano. Back before Steve was the size of a house and Bucky lost his ability to relax. Back then, the worst things they’d seen were the police raids on the discreet bars in their neighborhood, and the poverty on every street corner. _Normal_ things. Not war crimes, and men with melted skulls for heads.  

Sam had a smile that seemed to fight back the dread and anxiety clawing it’s way through Steve’s chest. An addicting sense of calm released some of the tension in his shoulders, and it was replaced with a wave of melancholy. 

He wanted to go _home_. Back to when Bucky was the one who smiled at him like that. 

“Must’ve freaked you out comin’ home after the whole defrosting thing.” Sam jumped in, and Steve should’ve fucking _known_ what he was in for when the guy said he worked for the VA. 

“Takes some getting used to— good to meet you, Sam.” 

He _tried_ to dismiss the situation, he really did. He tried to head home, back to his sparse, lonely apartment before he had to go to work. 

“It’s your bed, right?” 

But, Sam was easy to talk to.

“What’s that?” 

“Your bed, it’s too soft. When I was over there I slept on the ground, used rocks for pillows like a caveman. Now, I’m home, lying in my bed and it’s like...” 

“Lying on a marshmallow.” Steve cut in, the words spilling involuntarily from his brain to his mouth “Feel like I’m gonna sink right through the floor.” 

He didn’t mention how big the bed was. How _cold_ , all alone when he was so used to a chest pressed up against his back. So used to a hand resting over his heart. 

If he tried hard enough, Steve could almost still feel Bucky’s breath on the nape of his neck. 

It always left him hollow and broken. 

“You must miss the good ole’ days, huh?” Sam cut into his thoughts like he understood something in Steve’s carefully blank expression. 

He almost scoffed that the question, but he swallowed the surge of bitterness, forcing a shrug and mild smile. 

“Uh, the food’s better— we used to boil everything. No polio’s good, and the internet! So helpful...” he was a shit liar, so he stuck to these banale little truths. The things that hurt the least. “Been reading that a lot, trying to catch up.” 

Sam grinned that easy grin, recommended an album that Steve had never heard of, and for once, Steve wasn’t itching to leave a conversation. 

It wasn’t until his phone was buzzing with a message from Natasha that Steve gave Sam Wilson one last smile. 

“If you ever feel like dropping by the VA and making me look awesome in front of the girl at the front desk, you just let me know!” 

Something tight clutched Steve’s heart at the idea of it, but he didn’t dare show it. 

“I’ll keep it in mind.” 

His bike wasn’t parked too far, and he jogged away. He was late for work. He had no time to think about the _VA_ , or the absence of Bucky in his bed, or that easy going smile on Sam Wilson’s face. 

But, he was a bit more interested in his run the next day. And the next day. And the next day.

 

* * *

 

“Dude, when d’you _get here_ every day?” Sam finally asked at their usual tree on the fourth day. 

Steve pretended to be very interested in his quad stretch, at a loss for how to answer his friend’s question without recalling the mess that was last night. He’d never slept, just tossed and turned in the huge bed and listened to the screaming and bombs in his head. 

He finally gave up and was tying his sneakers at 3:30. 

“Steve?” 

He shrugged “Depends on the day.” 

He could feel Sam’s eyes on him as he bent down to get a cursory hamstring stretch, and he could still feel it as he stood back up. 

Bucky used to do that, too. When he knew Steve was getting sick again, and he _knew_ Steve was trying to hide his cough or his shivers. 

A prickle of irritation burned up in his gut, and he swallowed. 

Sam didn’t deserve Steve snapping at him any more than Buck ever had. 

“Every day when I get here, it seems like you’re further and further into your workout.” Sam needled “I get here at 5, and you’re already sprinting circles around me.”

“What’s your point?” He finally met his friend’s gaze, saw the soft concern there, and wanted to throw a goddamn punch. His voice was harsher than he meant for it to be, but he’d take it if it made Sam _stop._

“My nightmares were the worst about six months after I got home. It’s enough time for your body and mind to settle into civilian life— but when you’ve spent so long on such high alert, it’s like your brain needs to compensate. Like you _need_ to create that panic for yourself...”

“I haven’t been out that long yet.” He replied woodenly. Sam just shrugged. 

“It’s different for everybody.” a beat of silence passed, almost long enough for Steve to think he was out of the woods, but then Sam continued “Honesty hour, Steve. I’m not gonna judge you, trust me— when did you get here today?” 

He almost lied. He thought about it, but what would that get him? It was a simple question, it wasn’t even necessarily a telling question. 

Sam would know if he lied. He’d know, and it would be more telling than the truth could ever be. 

“Just shy of 4 o clock.” 

Sam nodded like he understood something unspoken, and Steve hated it less than he thought he would. It was almost a _relief_ for someone to know _something_ about him. The long days and longer nights. The paranoia. Maybe even the grief... 

“Come by the VA today?” 

He asked _every day_. And every day, Steve gave some stupid non-answer, shrugged it off, and internalized the swell of shame that welled up in him when he disappointed his new friend again and again. 

He looked down at his sneakers, trying to find the words to not say _no_ , but Sam was talking again. 

“I’ve got a group session tonight at 6– you don’t have to talk, you don’t even have to sit and stay, just _listen_ for a minute— I think you’d like it.” 

“I—“ 

“Don’t suffer alone, Steve.” 

Steve shut his mouth tight against the bile in his throat, clenching his jaw so he didn’t say anything he couldn’t take back. 

He took a deep, slow breath. 

“Sam, I... I’ll think about it.” 

He didn’t mean to say it at all, let alone _mean it_ , but he did. Steve would think about it. It set something desperate and lonely loose in his chest, at the thought of being around other people like that. In a building where people liked to think they _knew_ what you’d been through. 

He couldn’t believe he was even considering it.

 

* * *

The VA was in an _old_ building in DC. Narrow slats of hardwood gleamed on the floors, scuffed by decades of feet. It had arched ceilings and Corinthian accents. There were windows with walls and corridors, unlike the Triskelion and Stark Tower. 

It was hardly the Chrysler building, it wasn’t _remarkable_ , but Steve found himself looking around with a little bit of wonder. He watched his feet for the sake of the familiar old wood as much as for his fluttering, anxious heartbeat. He couldn’t meet anyone’s eye, not even that girl at the front desk that Sam said he should impress. 

It felt so _wrong_ to be there. Like everyone knew he was _weak._ He just counted the rooms until he could hear Sam’s voice, pausing in the threshold. 

Steve had known he would be late. He couldn’t stomach the idea of being seen, having to _talk_ to these people. So, he only came in for the last few testimonials, when everyone would be focused on something that wasn’t _Captain America._

He listened, and he crossed his arms to hide his shaking hands. 

His brain was so full, and the exhaustion was even starting to get to him. For all his enhancements, Steve wasn’t invincible, and the more tired he got, the more the lines between past and present blurred. 

He could swear he saw Bucky, at least once a day. He’d be behind him in the bathroom mirror, in the crowds of SHIELD employees filtering to and fro, at the back of the VA meeting, with his hands clasped together. 

He was never really there, of course. 

Bucky was _dead_.

Tony had said time travel wasn’t possible, Bruce had said the same when he’d asked him. Surely, he could trust two of the most intelligent scientists in this millennium more than he could trust some strange encounter with an _alien god_ after falling down ten flights of stairs. 

Bucky was dead, right? Bucky had slipped through his fingers— he felt it over and over, every time he managed to sleep deeper than a doze. 

But then, what if it wasn’t Loki? What if it had something to do with SHIELD? Maybe it had to do with why Pierce, and Rumlow, and that Sitwell guy were treating him so strangely.

The poor vet talking about her IED finally finished, and the polite applause around him jerked Steve out of his thoughts. 

Sam was clapping along with the rest, but Steve saw him flicker his gaze over to where he stood— he had seen. He was too smart not to. 

“I was hoping I’d see you, Running Man— what d’you think?” he asked, that smile disarming Steve as much as he could be disarmed, the last person from the group finally walking out the door.

“Only caught the last few minutes. It was pretty intense.” he replied, purposefully bland. 

“Yeah, we all handle things differently. It helps, though, to talk it out.” 

Steve just nodded, knowing full well that the VA could pry his war stories out of his cold, dead hands before he got up in front of that group. 

“It helped me, when I came home. We’ve all got the same problems, you know? Guilt, regret.” 

“You lose someone?” He asked without thinking, seeing Bucky in the corner of his eye and swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

Sam nodded “My wingman, Riley. Flying a night mission— standard PJ rescue op, nothing we hadn’t done a thousand times before. Till an RPG knocked Riley’s dumb ass out of the sky...” his mouth was set into a firm line, his voice just the slightest bit faint at the memory. Steve could hear Bucky’s scream echo through every hallway just thinking about it. “Nothin’ I could do. It was like I was up there just to watch.” 

_Me too_ , he almost said. He almost spilled every last second of the Zola op to Sam’s sympathetic ears, suddenly weighed down by the host of things Steve could have done _better_. Bucky _could have lived._

“I’m sorry.” he said instead. 

“After that, I had really hard time finding a reason for being over there, you know?” 

The familiarity of that, the absolute loss of faith he’d felt staring into that locker full of HYDRA weapons, hit Steve full force, and he nodded maybe more emphatically than he should. 

He’d never thought of life beyond the service. Beyond the war, sure, but he knew as soon as he agreed to Erskine’s experiment that it was a one-way trajectory from there. _Captain America_ had to be in the army  

“But you're happy now, back in the world?” He asked, a little desperate. 

“Hey, the number of people giving me orders is down to about zero. So, hell yeah.” he grinned “You thinking about getting out?”

“No.” He immediately lied, but the pit of discontent in his gut only grew until he rectified himself “I don't know. To be honest, I don't know what I would do with myself if I did.” 

“Ultimate fighting?” Sam joked, making Steve laugh in a way that was almost genuine “It's just a great idea off the top of my head. But seriously, you could do whatever you want to do. What makes you happy?”

Life wasn’t about what made him happy. It hadn’t been for a long time. It had always been about helping, _serving_ — what else could he do? Not a single doctor in all five Burroughs would give him a live expectancy beyond 30, all he ever wanted to for his death to _mean_ something.

But, he’d already died. He already done the one thing he _needed_ to do— Steve had no clue what to do now. 

What made him happy? His brain conjured up a pair of soft grey eyes, a smiling mouth, a dress uniform that made Bucky look more handsome than Gary Cooper. 

He’d drawn it enough times to know the image inside and out, but he’d never get it back

“I don't know.”

His feet itched to move, and he shifted a little under Sam’s perceptive brown gaze before making some excuse to leave. 

“Try to get some real sleep, Brother— see you at the Washington monument? Five?” 

“Yeah, yeah— I’ll see ya.”

 

* * *

 

He didn’t get real sleep. 

He traced his pencil back over his latest drawing, echoing the shape of Bucky’s sharp jawline and sloping eyes. For hours, it seemed, Steve just stared at the sketch like maybe it would blink, or laugh, or tell him whether or not he was alive and unchanged by some goddamned _miracle_. 

He kept his phone on and fully charged, sitting hopelessly silent while Steve continued to wait for Tony’s call. His report on SHIELD’s mysterious hire.

By the time Steve dragged himself to the Washington monument, Sam still wouldn’t be there for _two hours._

He walked, stretched, did push ups until he finally broke a sweat. Only then, did he allow himself to start running. 

“ _Steve_ — c’mon, Man.” Sam’s voice broke the morning hush on lap 6. “Please tell me you just got here.” 

“I just got here.” 

They both knew it was a lie, and Steve grinned like a cheeky asshole, hollow as a jack o lantern. Bucky would have rolled his eyes, would have manhandled him all the way back to bed. 

Sam just sighed. 

And they ran. For an hour, they just ran side by side. Steve wasn’t there for the workout as much as the companionship, anyway. 

Besides, he was thinking. He hadn’t stopped thinking for a second since godawful question: _what makes you happy?_

Bucky. Bucky made him happy. That sketch was burned into his mind, behind his eyes every time he blinked, and Steve couldn’t stop _thinking_. 

They stopped, as they always did, at their tree. 

The silence was comfortable, only the first few cars of the early commuters rumbling past. 

“Sam?” Steve broke that peaceful quiet, grabbing his friend’s wrist to turn him around. 

“What’s up?” he searched Steve’s face. 

“If there was a chance— even the most ridiculous, convoluted theory— that Riley was alive... what would you do?” 

Steve hated to ask, he was sure he looked absolutely _insane_ , but he _had to know_ he wasn’t completely crazy. 

He had to _try,_ right? 

Sam looked at him hard for a moment, like he was wondering whether Steve was pulling some horrible prank. After a moment, though, he simply took a breath, jaw set. “I’d raise Hell to bring him home safe, and never let him go.” 

And, for the first time in a long damn time, Steve Rogers let himself _hope_.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hello. It's been a LONG time. 
> 
> I'm so sorry. My mental health has been touch and go, school has been BUSY, and I have not had my head in the writing game. I reworked my outline, and I'm back in it now. 
> 
> PLEASE COMMENT IF YOU LIKE IT. It's so encouraging to get feedback from you all, and it makes me write faster! So, if this is something you want to read more of, tell me that. 
> 
> As always, please enjoy <3

The first thing he felt was the pounding in his head. Then, there was the freezing cold, constricting his lungs like the fucking Arctic all over again. 

 _God_ , he was so cold. It gripped his heart right through his ribs, squeezing until his vision swam and popped from the lack of oxygen. He blinked rapidly, trying to make out where the hell he was, but it was useless. He saw flashes of shapes and blobs of light, and it felt like a fever dream, back in home in his lumpy bed a million years ago. The cold bit into him like mountain air and his fingers clenched and released reflexively. 

His knuckles were stiff and sore. Steve took inventory of himself and found that damn near _all_  of him felt stiff and sore. He had been running with Sam that morning. He had gone to the Triskelion. What happened? _Where am I?_

Distantly, Steve was aware that he was trembling. Grappling with his abstract vision, he fought for some type of orientation— _When am I?_  his mind raced, fighting for breath through his panicked lungs. 

Was he small or big? Was he home? Did he sleep through another lifetime? Fear clenched up, cold and solid in his gut— he didn’t know if he was drowning or defrosting, but he wished that whatever it was would just hurry up and get it over with. Steve was _tired_. His head pounded, his body ached. 

 _It’s just a dream..._  he repeated over and over, willing himself to close his eyes and keep them closed for just a moment _It’s just a dream, it must be..._  

But then he heard the voices, and his eyes flew open as clarity came back to him. 

“The Chair? Are you sure that’s wise?” A voice hissed, echoing slightly in the space and in Steve’s throbbing head. It was Sitwell. 

“That one’s not even functional right now— besides, it’s all we’ve got that’ll hold him.” Rumlow. That one was Rumlow— Steve’s jaw worked as a burst of rage coursed through him. “Checking the cuffs outta lock up could’ve drawn Fury’s attention.”

The room was all polished, dark stone and gleaming metal. There was a huge vault on the far door. He was in a bank vault, his gaze finally coming into focus on the deposit boxes and the details of the space. Bars that Steve knew he could break like toothpicks separated him from the other side of the room, where the voices echoed to his ears. 

He tugged feebly at the restraints on his arms and legs, only to find them strapped down with black, unbreakable bonds.  

This was _not_  a dream. 

 

* * *

 

 

He had been leaving Fury’s office with an update on the tesseract. Steve tamped down on the surge of malice in his blood while looking at the file. 

 _If they’d just left well enough alone, that thing would still be at the bottom of the ocean_  he thought. The _and so would I_  was implied, but he didn’t dare think it. Bucky would’ve smacked him till his ears rang if he heard Steve think like that. 

Steve shook himself a little in the empty hallway, freeing the thoughts, but holding that little burst of anger close, bottling it up to spar with Nat later. 

The elevator was blissfully empty when he stepped in.

There was a buzzing in his pocket. His heart lept into his throat at the name on his phone screen: _Tony_. 

“Stark—“ 

“ _Steve, are you on SHIELD property?_ “ Tony’s voice crackled down the line with none of his usual fanfare. Steve immediately felt the tension rise. 

“Why?” 

“ _You’re gonna want to sit down for this— get to a secure location and call me back_.” 

“What? Tony—“ 

“ _They know they’ve been hacked. Don’t know if they know it was me, but they_ —“ Stark’s voice rose, clipped with urgency, but Steve didn’t have time to get a word in. 

The elevator stopped at the 38th floor. 

And Rumlow got in. Steve hung up without saying any goodbye, a deep suspicious dread creeping through his veins as four more agents came to surround him. 

 _Shit_. 

The elevator stopped three more times, until it was full of agents. Agents with full belts of weapons and nervous sweat beading at their foreheads, and Steve knew what was going to happen with a sinking feeling in his gut. 

“Before we get started,” he broke the silence “does anyone want to get out?” 

And all Hell broke loose. 

 

* * *

 

Sitwell’s voice echoed into his makeshift cell again “It’s... poetic, I guess. Is that chair powered down, or just not functional?” 

“Powered down.” Rumlow answered “With the flick of a switch, we could make all this go away—“ 

“We’d have to run that through the proper channels. The boss—“ 

“The boss won’t want to waste a specimen like _that_. All that serum?” there was a sharp, mocking edge in the bastard’s voice. 

There were few words in the English language that Steve hated as much as _specimen_. But, that was neither here nor there as the true nature of his bindings became clearer. 

It was a chair, but more than a chair. Like an old-fashioned dentist’s office chair— sloping backward, forcing him to lay down just a bit. That was where the similarity ended, though. The acrid tang of bleach and ozone wafted around Steve’s head, and when he turned, he could see some type of contraption that looked like it had been pulled out of the darkest corner of Azzano. 

He had to get out of here. He flexed against his bonds, but Rumlow was right. The shackles held up against the full force of Steve’s strength, only succeeding in letting out a groan at the hinges and a loud clang that drew the attention of the guards at the door. 

 _Fuck_. 

“Well, well— morning Cap. How’s the head? You didn’t exactly go down easy.” Rumlow drawled. Of course, he had all the confidence in the world when the strongest person in the room was helpless. Steve rolled his eyes, ignoring the throbbing in his temples. 

“What’s going on here, Rumlow?” He tried to keep his voice level, even though it was hoarse from disuse. 

That asshole fucking _shrugged_. “Just want you to answer a couple questions, Cap. Questions only you know the answers to.” 

Steve gritted his teeth, keeping his mouth shut and not rising to the bait. He waited, watching Rumlow as if to say _Well?_

He got a little thrill out of the prickle of irritation that passed over the other man’s face.

“Where’s the scepter?” 

 _What?_  

“ _What?_ “ 

“Don’t play dumb, Rogers. I was standing right there— we all were!” He gestured to the guards, to Sitwell, himself “You got into the elevator at Stark Tower. You said you were running point on the scepter. You said _Hail_ _HYDRA_.” 

Steve felt like he’d been hit in the head all over again, his blood running cold. 

_Hail HYDRA._

He barely even noticed as Rumlow closed in on him, his ears ringing and his heart pounding as he put the pieces together. 

There had been _another Steve_ after the battle. Steve had fought him-- he must’ve been the one on the elevator, too. There was another Steve who _couldn’t_  be Loki— how would Loki know about HYDRA at all? Let alone... that must’ve been what Tony was going to tell him. There was a HYDRA sleeper cell hidden within SHIELD all this time. _Peggy’s_  SHIELD. Blinding rage built up to its boiling point in his gut, his mind leaping from puzzle piece to puzzle piece and finally seeing the whole hideous picture. 

This new millennium was a sick joke. They took Peggy’s life’s work and perverted it. They took Steve’s sacrifice and rendered it null and void. They _killed_ _Bucky_ , and—

But, if the other Steve had been right about SHIELD... _where was Bucky?_  

It wasn’t until a rough hand gripped his shoulder that he snapped out of it, glaring daggers into the agent sneering down at him. 

“I’ll be honest, Steve, I was really hoping at first— we all were!— that you could be swayed. That you were _on our side_  when you took the scepter, and when you took the job here... the boss was _so_ _disappointed_  when we got the news that we’d been hacked.” Sitwell chimed in from his safe distance in his expensive shoes “A security breach that pinged back to Manhattan— _Stark_ _Tower_ ,of all places.” 

There was a pause, as if they expected Steve to react, to try to explain, maybe even _beg_. 

Steve had never begged a day in his life, he wasn’t about to start now. 

“I’ll ask you again,” Rumlow leaned down, a breath away from Steve’s nose “Where’s the scepter, Captain Rogers? And while we’re at it— how do you know about our organizatio—“ 

Steve didn’t wait for him to finish before he lost control and rushed up like he could punch that smug look off his face, flexing against the chair with fists clenched. Rumlow flinched, and Steve’s adrenaline rushed as he spat in his face. 

There was a moment of complete silence before the deafening crack of knuckles crashed against his cheek. Steve bit his lip against the cry in his throat, only letting out a muted grunt at the pain lancing through his skull. 

“You wanna do this the hard way— okay, Rogers. Let’s do it.” Rumlow drove his fist into Steve’s temple this time, sending his brain ricocheting around his skull before pushing him down in the chair by his throat. 

“I would _never_ say anything about HYDRA except to bring it crashing down— I have no clue what you’re talking about.” Steve spat out the words, struggling to take longer breaths. 

“You leaned right into my ear when you said it!” Sitwell cried “Just before you took the scepter and left—“

Memories swam in his mind— seeing what he _thought_  was Loki, holding the scepter, using his face, fighting him shield to shield... the confusion knotting itself in his stomach when he saw Peggy’s beautiful face in that compass. 

Rumlow’s fist was clenched around his windpipe, and his fought for breath, the metal cuffs of the chair digging into his arms as he pulled against them. His blood was hot, dripping down his wrists and pooling along his skin. The hinges groaned again. 

“Rumlow, _stop_.” Sitwell pulled the other man back, letting Steve gasp desperately for air. Over the relentless pound of his heartbeat, Steve’s enhanced hearing still caught “The Director wants him alive—“ 

“Then I’m turning on the Chair—“ Rumlow growled “If he won’t give us answers, we can at least get some use out of him!”

Steve heard a scuffle around the back of the chair before Sitwell finally shouted “He wants us to take him out of the city first!” He was nearly as out of breath as Steve, and he did his best to appear unconscious in his chair while he listened to the two fight “We take him out of the city before we do any of that. _If_  we can—“ 

“What do you mean _if_ _we can?_ It worked before—” 

“That took decades! Rogers might be too recognizable, anyway.” 

There was a moment of loaded silence where Steve could’ve sworn he heard a safety click off. 

“So, we kill him, then.” Rumlow finally said, voicing Steve’s thoughts with startlingly accuracy. 

“He knows too much. We take him out of the city, get the location of the scepter by any means necessary, and we clean up.” It was all so cavalier, Steve could almost hear Sitwell’s shrug as he lay there, waiting. 

Transport to a new location meant an escape opportunity. He tried to breathe, to collect his strength for the moment those cuffs came off. He’d need it. 

There was a light breeze, then— a whooshing sound that sent Steve’s eyes flying open and his neck craning around, just as an arrow lodged itself in Sitwell’s knee. 

His scream reverberated off every marble slab and metal surface in the vault, vibrating through Steve’s throbbing head and into his bones. 

Two familiar figures appeared in the threshold of the vault, and relief swept over Steve like a great wave as he pushed his pain to the back of his mind. He tugged against his shackles again, the metal edges ripping further into the flesh of his forearms, but Steve didn’t care. 

Nat and Clint came bursting into the room, launching into their attack. 

The guards barely had time to draw their weapons before Natasha’s electrified wristlets sent them toppling to the ground. Sitwell had fainted from the agony in his knee. But, that still left Rumlow. 

Clint loosed three arrows, whizzing past Steve and straight into Rumlow’s shoulder, thigh, and arm. Steve threw every bit of enhanced strength that he had into trying to break his bonds— he couldn’t just _sit_ _there_. He had to be in the fight, even though it seemed over while they waited for Rumlow to scream and fall. 

“What kind of shit arrows are these, Barton?” The bastard laughed instead  “You’re barely drawing blood! Take one more step, and I’ll blow his fucking brains out.”

Steve’s world was reduced to that room and that fight, and the bubbling hatred in his gut for the man holding the muzzle of his gun to Steve’s temple. 

With a deafening crack, the metal cuffs splintered apart at the hinges, and Steve wasted no time in batting the gun right out of Rumlow’s grip. It sailed across the vault, going off with a bang that nearly brought tears to Steve’s eyes— his head _hurt_. 

He lept to his feet, feeling a bit more like a little guy in a scrap that was too big for him than a scientifically enhanced supersoldier. 

Rumlow was worse off than even Steve, though. His eyes rolled back into his head and the smile slid off his smug fucking face as he collapsed to the ground. 

He stumbled a little, and Steve would go to his grave saying it was out of shock, not the exhaustion or pain. Clint was there in seconds, steadying him with a hand on his back and a quick little grin. 

“Tranquilizers.” He answered Steve’s unspoken question, and he couldn’t help the manic bark of laughter that burst out of him when the archer said it. 

“C’mon, big guy— we’re on a tight schedule.” Nat cut in, appearing in Steve’s line of sight by the door. Through his haze, Steve saw the way she glanced at that goddamn chair, sidestepping it like it was cursed. Before tugging him along behind her, she gripped his cheeks in both her little hands and looked at him hard, scrutinizing. She turned his head from side to side, looking for something. 

“ ‘M fine, Nat. Just a little bruised.” He managed to get out, his forearms pulsing with hot blood and his head throbbing. His mind was nearly exploding with all of the _shit_ he’d just learned, reeling from the disorientation and the crippling grief— for his life, his death, his _legacy_. 

Nat pursed her lips. Clint clicked his tongue. “They pumped you full of enough tranquilizers to level an elephant, Rogers. You’re gonna feel ‘bruised’ for a little longer than normal.” 

“That why I feel so hungover?” Steve replied dryly.  The two of them just led him through the maze of bodies to the back door, pressing down on his bloody arms until he hissed at the pressure. 

By the look on Nat’s face, it was on purpose. 

“That, and the concussion.” She gestured toward the black SUV gleaming in the lights of the alleyway “Get in the car, Rogers.” 

 

* * *

 

His head was starting to hurt less as the car sped down the highway and toward the forest in the distance. The serum itched under his skin, knitting his torn skin and muscle back together, but Natasha refused to let up her her grip on the healing wounds, glaring at him every time he tried to tug away. 

“So, where are we headed?” He broke the tense silence. 

“Somewhere safe.” Maria Hill replied cryptically from behind the wheel. Her jaw was set so hard that Steve could swear he heard her teeth grinding. 

He let the silence hang after that, too tired to continue, knowing instinctively that this was a car full of mourners. 

They all knew. They all knew to some degree, at least, that their careers— their _lives_ — had all been a lie. If they didn’t know, they wouldn’t be here, in an SUV speeding past the sign for _New_ _Jersey_ , of all places. 

“How did you know where I was? That I was even gone—?”

“Got a call from Stark.” Clint craned his head with a wry smile from the passenger seat “He sent us some files, and said that you hung up without saying ‘thank you’. That’s apparently ‘too rude for Captain Manners’, so— _Maria,_ _DOWN_.” 

The cry cut into the tense quiet mere seconds before several things happened at once. 

Clint reached for Maria’s arm, yanking hard just as a bullet ripped through the windshield and straight through the headrest of the drivers seat. Glass exploded everywhere, and Maria cried out in pain. The bullet lodged in the upholstery between Steve and Nat, and they only spared each other a momentary glance before leaping into action. 

Steve reached blindly into the seat in front of him, his fingers meeting with a slick of blood pumping steadily from Maria’s shoulder. He could see her white knuckle grip on the wheel, and heard her muttered little thanks as he pressed down on the wound. 

The car swerved from lane to lane, listing into the guardrails for a minute before Clint steadied the wheel. Steve found himself grateful for the emptiness of the street. Nat had her guns drawn, but they were only little reassurances. The figure in the middle of the empty highway was just standing there, inhumanly still, covered from head to toe in muted black Kevlar. 

Except for his left arm. The bright silver armor glinted yellow in the streetlights, holding a sleek rifle in a relaxed hold. As if there was nothing more natural. 

Steve pushed down a rush of nervous energy, without his shield or any other weapon, and prepared to get out and face the new threat.

“Turn around and floor it.” 

It was the _last_ _thing_ Steve ever expected from Natasha Romanov. 

“Nat, it’s _one_ _guy_.” He heard himself say. 

“That’s not just some guy— Maria, turn us back toward the city.” 

Maria’s breathing was labored under Steve’s hand, and she was still losing blood rapidly as she gathered herself and threw the car into gear. 

They peeled around in the opposite direction, and the guy only followed. He _walked_ after them with a purposeful stride— so _unbothered_ , it made a cold pit of fear in Steve’s gut. 

“Nat, who _is_  that?” He hissed, unable to look away, but the man still managed to disappear. 

She didn’t reply. 

“We can lose him easier in the city streets, but that means our cover’s blown—“ Maria managed to say “Can’t meet up with Fury. Where’m I headed?” 

Steve wracked his brain— 

“Everywhere I know is associated with SHIELD. Not secure.” Clint shook his head. 

“Me too.” said Nat. 

There was one place. The question was, could he risk the guy with the arm tailing them all the way there? 

As if on cue, a loud, heavy bang dented their roof at the outskirts of the city. A rain of bullets came down on the pavement in front of the car, and Maria screeched to a halt at the same time that Steve let go of her, punched out his backseat window, and levered himself up to grip a booted ankle and pull as hard as he could. 

The man flew off the car, landing with a crack on the pavement, but he didn’t make a sound. He had long, greasy brown hair that hung around his face as he reached up and tugged off his now damaged goggles with metal fingers that were _not_ armor. 

His eyes were blank, slate grey, dull and unfeeling— but there was something so _familiar_  about them, it clenched around Steve’s heart like a silver fist. 

He only had a second where their eyes met, feeling like he was missing something that the universe was _screaming_  for him to understand. 

The man was just getting up when Maria peeled off again into the city streets, taking every alleyway and shortcut through the early morning roads of DC. 

“Guys, _where_  am I _going?_ ” She huffed out with a tinge of desperation, and Steve seemed to snap back into the moment. 

“I know someplace.” 

 

* * *

 

Sam was just stepping out his front door. He was sure Steve was already at the monument— probably had been for a while. A pang of concern tightened in his chest, and he ran through his tactic for that day. He had only gotten more worried about his new friend as he analyzed and re-analyzed their conversation the morning before. About Riley. About losing someone _that might be alive_. 

Sam couldn’t force anything— he couldn’t _make_  Steve go to the VA, or any other type of therapy. But, he couldn’t just let this fly. 

He was at the corner of his street when the most trashed SUV he’d ever seen came crawling around the corner, lights off and tires low. And then, a familiar blonde head popped out the _shattered_  backseat window. 

“Hey Steve.” He sighed, somehow not surprised “Um, what’s... what’s going on?” 

His face was grim, a little bruised, and Sam knew he’d help him however he could, whatever he needed. 

“I hate to ask this, but we need a place to lay low.” 

Sam only nodded “Ditch the ride and c’mon in, Man.” 


End file.
